


The City of Falling Angels

by Aloysia_Virgata



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, antipasto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 12:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4101511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysia_Virgata/pseuds/Aloysia_Virgata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set within days of Antipasto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The City of Falling Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to leiascully and tlynnfic for the beta work.
> 
> Apologies to John Berendt.

He was a storm that rolled in from the sea. She had waited on the flat expanse of shoreline and watched the clouds gather low and grey on the edge of things, heavy with the promise of destruction. Of electricity. Of power.

And she had not run from it, no. She had drawn it with her stillness and the iron in her blood, letting herself be pulled into the terrible calm of the eye.

***

Bedelia stands now like a marble goddess above Florence, beautiful and aware that she is beautiful. She is grateful for it, knowing well that Hannibal’s boundless fascination with all things rare is what keeps her heart alternately pounding and fluttering in her breast. Tartufi bianchi, his Brioni vicuna suit, the lines of her fine Roman profile. They are the same to him. She is his plaything, she knows this too. Dottore Fell is known in certain hushed places for stopping in to purchase something exquisite for the Signora. These he leaves at her dressing table like offerings: kidskin gloves in a dainty box, yards of muslin covering a gown heavy with pearls.

Tonight she wears a silk sheath the color of his almond soap beneath a floor-length wrap of merino lace. Around her the sky fades from burning orange to a velvety plum as bats swoop and swerve among the arches and towers of the timeless city. Bedelia presses against the balcony, feeling light enough to flit with them through the Florentine evening. There is the suggestion of a smile at the inconvenience it would cause Hannibal to see her shattered face upon the bloody flagstones of the palazzo.

Tonight is not the night for flying, but the option gives her steady comfort, a lucky pebble with a worn spot from constant rubbing. At times she can almost feel the air rushing past her, the sudden crack of her skull against the ground. And then nothing at all.

A door opens inside and she blinks the image away, lest Hannibal read it in her eyes. She wouldn’t put it past him. There are ghosts between them, some very new.

“Buona sera,” he says, joining her outside. He is dressed simply, camel-colored trousers and a crisp pale blue shirt accentuating his Vitruvian form. Bedelia is haunted, but not blind.

She accepts the glass of wine he offers. “You’re late this evening.”

“I was reading a document on the White Guelphs and lost track of time. The writing is very dense in these manuscripts.” That preternatural, raptor-like cock of his head. “I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.”

She swallows a mouthful of wine, considering. No is safe, but yes will intrigue him. It is essential that she intrigue him after the disaster with Anthony Dimmond. Bedelia looks away as she speaks, affecting hurt. “I had dinner prepared.”

“Really?”

The curiosity in that one word floods her with a palpable relief. She will need to tantalize more than Hannibal’s eye if she does not want him sampling secondhand oysters and acorns. She offers him her hand, the one with the wedding band. “Come.”

He takes it, running his thumb over the small bones beneath her skin, lingering at the knuckles before letting go. The doctor is very fond of her hands, which are slender and strong. “First I have a gift for you.”

From his pocket he draws a velvet pouch, then tips the contents into her hand. It is a necklace made of cabochon sapphires and opals; it is a necklace made of the sky.

Bedelia touches it with a reverent forefinger. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” She is ashamed of wanting it.

“It belonged to the daughter of Gian Giacomo Medici. I think it will be quite remarkable with your eyes.”

His own eyes, meanwhile, are fixed upon her face, and seem to hold something akin to tenderness. She is afraid to meet them and afraid to look away. Unable to choose, she bows her head.

Hannibal’s fingers are light at her neck, carrying with them an echo of Dimmond’s spine snapping. She recalls his choking, rattling gasps as he dragged himself to the door. Her pulse speeds up with a terrible excitement; there is a clenching fear in her gut, though she thinks it may be herself she fears most of all. Hannibal can doubtless sense the adrenaline as he clasps the jewels of the long-departed marchesa about her throat. She lets her hair brush his cheek.

A quick stroke of his fingers behind her ear before he steps back to survey her. “Belissima,” he murmurs, face alight with an aesthete’s pleasure.

“Grazie.” The filigreed gold is heavy and cool against the wings of her collarbones.

Hannibal draws close to her again, slipping an arm about her waist. Beneath the wine, beneath the base musk of Peau d’Espagne, Bedelia smells the strange heat of his skin. In her weaker moments, she’s come close losing what’s left of herself in the scent of him.

“Between the devil and the deep blue sea, Signora Fell?” She looks up, and the dark waters of the Arno are reflected in his eyes.

“Il diavolo non è così brutto come lo si dipinge,” she quips, hoping the tone is playful rather than pleading in her constricted throat.

He strokes a sapphire on her necklace, and it gives her a little thrill of terror. “A nemico che fugge, fa un ponte d’oro.”

Her heart squeezes. “I’m not your enemy, Dottore.”

“But you have already established we are not friends, yes? And I am no longer your patient. So where does that leave us, my dear?” He turns, offering her his arm.

“We are…” what? What is she to this man, his person suit exchanged for something even more compelling?

Hannibal’s mouth twists with patient amusement. He guides her into the kitchen.

“We are companions,” she decides, stepping away to attend to their meal. She pulls on a pair of oven mitts, which seems such an absurd, prosaic thing to do in this dreamlike place. Heady steam rolls out when she opens the oven door

“Dinner smells wonderful,” Hannibal says and, like the oven mitts, the banality leaves her with a desire to laugh.

Bedelia suspects she is going quietly, operatically, mad.

She moves the heavy pan to the counter, strangely self-conscious before his judgment as she takes the mitts off. “I have never stuffed a rabbit before.”

“Coniglio arrotolato,” he observes. “Beautiful. But what is he filled with, Bedelia?”

As if he doesn’t know. As if he didn’t know the moment he approached their home. As if this isn’t all one of his little games. But his games have such high stakes, and she’s never played this one before. _L’acqua ch’io prendo già mai non si corse._

“Sausage,” she breathes. “English. And. There are…kidneys. There is liver mousse in that bowl.” Some primal part of her wants to fall to her knees and scream until he ends it for her, like he did for poor Anthony. But she wants too much to live and holds herself still, still as the rabbit must have been waiting for the hunter to pass.

There is a subtle shift in his face. It is fascination. Arousal. Approval. Bedelia loathes herself as she realizes how much she has craved this reaction. The urge to scream rises again and she has to think of the rabbit’s head on the butcher’s counter to chase it away for good.

“You are no longer avoiding food with a central nervous system?”

Bedelia swallows more wine to hide her shaking hand. “Rabbits have eyes on the sides of their heads,” she observes. “But not us.”

“No,” Hannibal says, as he begins to carve the roast. “We do not.”

“We are predators.” _I am participating, Hannibal. Do you see?_

He arranges slices of the meat on a bed of purslane, dressing it with the mousse and nasturtiums. “So it is a simple matter of biology then, Dr. du Maurier? We are slaves of our own anatomy?”

“He who made the lamb made thee.” This is not an actual place, this kingdom he has created. She can answer in such riddles. Nothing here is real.

“And you too,” he reminds her. “But what are you, Bedelia? You are not a tiger. Not all in white.”

She won’t be led to slaughter. “I’m not a lamb.”

He nods appraisingly. “You are not a lamb, to be sure.” He pours them each a glass of the Amarone she left breathing on the counter.

It comes down to this. Bedelia carefully cuts a bite of her food, this meal she has prepared, this wedding feast. She places it in her mouth and is not repulsed. She chews, she swallows. She sips her wine. Hannibal shows her a sketch he has made of a crocodile found in a medieval bestiary and it makes them both smile. Bedelia knows she has eaten the food of this land and must stay. It is the way things are in fairy tales.

She pushes the last of herself into an oubliette.

“Thank you for dinner,” he says, and kisses her hand. “It was very good.”

Bedelia dabs at her mouth. “It has always intimidated me to cook for you.”

“You chose unfamiliar ingredients. That is daunting, but your taste has always been impeccable.”

She touches the necklace again. “We are not just companions, Hannibal. And this is not a bridge, I know.” He will never build her a bridge, golden or otherwise. She thinks of Pietro della Vigna in his lecture the other night, chained like a dog in Pisa until he dashed his brains out on the stones.

“It isn’t a noose. Are you afraid of me?”

She must be truthful. “Not here. But I never forget that you are a tiger.”

He smiles. “Is that my _ding an sich_ , Dr. du Maurier? My avatar in the noumenal realm?”

“I’m not a Kantian, Dr. Lecter. Merely a Stoic.”

“You are reflecting on Aurelius’s _Meditations_ , then, when you call me a tiger? Aurelius instructs us to discern of each thing its nature, and then states that 'he who lives in harmony with himself lives in harmony with the universe.' By your reckoning, I therefore have no cause to be troubled by what I do. _Nam naturae conveniens est; nihil autem malum, quod naturae convenit._ ”

"That's synthetic _a posteriori," s_ he chides. "You should know better."

He leans across the table to wag a finger at her. "You're being pedantic."

"I'm being precise. Discernment of individual nature does not necessarily encompass internal harmony, Hannibal. You're creating a false syllogism." 

"I have never failed to act in accordance with my own disposition. Isn't that the Stoic's definition of morality?"

"You said morality doesn't exist." She is enjoying herself.

"It doesn't. But your own discomfort with your present situation is predicated upon the belief that it does. It seems to me that you wish for there to be a universal acceptance in which each living thing acts according to its core purpose and pure nature. This, Aurelius says, creates harmony. You, like Aurelius, call this harmony morality. Unless you find the core purpose to be objectionable, in which case one must behave _contrary_ to that nature. Which puts one out of harmony. That is, then, by your own definition, immoral." His expression is of subtle satisfaction.

Bedelia glances at her plate, shreds of meat and flowers drying on the fine china. She is very warm from the wine, the rich food. "Humans can choose. We can look to the better parts of our nature and act on those."

"Ah, so only animals can be purely moral?"

"I don't believe animals can be _im_ moral." 

"But as you say, I am a tiger. So don't let the Emperor trouble you any longer." Hannibal rises, and his footfalls echo sharply in the vast space. “Music has charms to soothe the savage beast.” He sits at the harpsichord with his wine glass and beckons her to join him.

This is the crux of him, she thinks, this exchange. If he weren’t what he is, it would be easy to spend a lifetime with him. It is why he is so dangerous.“I don’t play,” she says, crossing the room.

“Then you may observe.” He grins, and his teeth are stained with purple.

Bedelia slips her wrap to the floor and steps out of her shoes. The marble is so smooth and cool beneath her feet. She watches him watch her. This is their dance.

“I would like to learn,” she tells him.

He begins to play Picchi’s _Toccata_ once she is seated. Blood sings in her ears, but she can no longer be certain it is her own.


End file.
